The Maury Povich Effect
by crackers4jenn
Summary: One night, stupidly, Claire knocks at her father's door.


One night, stupidly, Claire knocks at her father's door.

"What is it?" Jay answers, pulling on his bathrobe, face already pinched in parental concern. Great. Because she's so terrible. That's it, right, that she never visits, so obviously the one time she shows up, there's got to be some catastrophe, right?

He says, even more worried, "Claire, what's wrong?"

"No, there's no-emergency. Everything is _fine_, Dad."

Unless you count guilt. Ohhh, there's guilt.

He looks blank for a few seconds, then, waving behind him, only half-sincere, "You wanna come in?"

"Actually." She eyeballs the ground. "I have this_ problem_."

"Is this about money?" Voice dropping low, he tells her, "You know, your mother loved to gamble. Not that I think it might be a genetic thing, because god knows, look at your brother. That apple fell off some kind of fairy tree."

"Dad!" (Seriously?)

But he tosses his hands up. "Just saying."

"It's... _Phil_," she sighs. "He's having... confidence issues."

* * *

"Innocently," Claire says to the cameras, "I ordered some movies off of Netflix. Just ones I thought would be good. Because sometimes, at the end of a very long day, where Haley's told me a hundred times that I'm the worst Mom ever, or Alex has out-Mom'ed me on something, or Luke has been his sweet, lovable self; seriously, that kid never gets into trouble; I just, I need some _alone_ time. Some me-time. So, I ordered these movies, and... problem."

("That's interesting," Phil said, voice this low murmur.

Claire looked up from where she was cranking open a bottle of wine. "Hmm. What?"

"These," Phil said. One by one he laid out her Netflix movies. And stared. It was a few seconds later, while lost in thought, that he mused, "They're all... connected."

"Oh, are they?" The cork popped off. "I hadn't really noticed."

"This guy," Phil pointed at Colin Firth's face, peering up at him from one of the DVDs. "He's on all the covers."

Claire hesitated. Suspiciously. "Oh. He is? That's-I hadn't noticed. Weird."

"Yeahhhh," Phil hummed, honed in on something altogether more shady: Clarie's inability to look him in the eye. "Claire, sweetheart."

Busying herself by pouring her glass of wine, she answered, distracted, "Yeah?"

Confirming his hunch.

"You don't have a _crush_ on this guy. Do you?"

"What?" Her voice came out higher than normal. "That's ridiculous. He's an actor. He makes movies. I don't have a," she laughed, weirdly, "crush."

"Mmmhmm." Not convinced in the least, Phil said, "Is it the accent? 'Cause I can do accents. _E'lo, Claire. Fancy some wine?_"

She stared-a long four seconds-then rushed past him. "Please don't ruin accents for me, honey."

"Ruin?" he scoffed, turned around and following her. They headed for the living room. "That accent just got a thousand percent improved because it was put through the Dunphy, awesome-making ringer."

"Yeah, you totally ruined it. Your dialect is, seriously, way off."

"_Claire, 'oney, wouldn't you like some bangers and mash?_"

"Seriously, stop."

"This is because of my chiseled jaw line. Isn't it?"

Claire stopped and spun around. "Phil!"

"_Sorry_ you married the face of a handsome man and not the face of a... more-handsome man."

"I like your jaw! I like your face."

"But you're not arguing that it could be better."

Claire hesitated. That would be her downfall.

"We_llllll_."

She did always kind of like imagining what it'd be like to be married to Colin Firth. Or, you know, not even him. That was just a random actor. Unrelated to her current Netflix choices.

"To know the truth," Phil said, heavy on the melodrama, "is to know pain."

"Phil," Claire sighed, but it was too late.)

* * *

Phil sits in front of the camera:

"Claire once said to me, years ago, that I had the facial structure of Maury Povich. Compliment, right? _So I thought_. Just last week when I was asking her whatever happened to Connie Chung, she drops a bomb on me: She's never thought Maury Povich was attractive. I know. _Whaaaaaat_? I question everything now."

"It's so stupid," Claire says. "I mean, if you think about it, it makes no sense. It's a movie. Okay, several movies. Thank you, Manny."

He hands her a warm mug of cocoa, then settles beside her at the kitchen counter. Jay is on the other side.

Manny says, chockful of his usual old-souled wisdom, "I'm no expert, but it sounds to me like you rattled his confidence. Who was the actor?"

Claire takes a pause-giving sip. Then clears her throat. "It doesn't matter."

Beside her, Jay laughs. "Fess up. Who was it? It matters. C'mon, it matters or else you wouldn't be here. Is it that Johnny Depp?"

"What? No."

"Leonardo Dicaprio? Brad Pitt? Stop me if I get close."

"How do you know these names?"

"I'm old, Claire, not stupid. So who is it?"

"It's..." She lets out a heavy breath and admits, "It's Colin Firth, okay?"

On both sides of her, Jay and Manny chuckle.

"Classic," marvels Manny.

"You need to fix this," Claire tells her dad, who loses his amusement, fast.

"Why do I need to fix it? I didn't do anything."

"Because! He looks up to you."

"Maybe he should wear lifts. Ever think about that?"

Manny sticks a hand out in front of Claire, and Jay slaps a palm to it.

"Nice one," Manny says.

"Dad, Phil doesn't need _lifts_. He needs someone that he cares about to talk to him."

"And say _what_? 'There comes a point in every man's life when his wife finds comfort in the arms of some actor she sees in the movies'?"

"Yes," she deadpans. "That. That's exactly it! Thank you _so_ much."

Manny lifts a resolute hand. "Hold up. He has a point."

At which point, Jay, smug, gives off the ol' facial equivalent of _SO SUCK ON THAT._

Claire groans out her annoyance, but Manny's hand is still there, still shaming them into silence.

"Jay's right," he says, then ignores Jay's expressed gratitude. "Phil needs to know that he's not alone in this."

"Wait," Jay says. He stares. "What?"

"He's _not_," Claire insists. Alright, it's a little forcefully. So what?

"Phil's a sensitive man. All he needs is some gentle reassurance. Trust me on this."

"Okay," Claire says, after a beat. "Trust a kid. Sure. Okay! Why not. You know what? That makes sense."

"You're rambling," Manny says, just this side of condescending. "I get it. I'm used to it. Most adults have a hard time being comfortable around me."

Claire puts down her cocoa and dives in, going straight for the comfort. "Oh, sweetie. Nooo. No, no. That's not it."

When she shoots Jay a 'help me out here!' look, he shrugs and tells her, "Kid's got something about him, that's for sure."

With a wise-beyond-his-years sigh, Manny pulls out of Claire's consoling grip and slips off the stool. He's wearing silk pajamas. The sleeves are too long, but the cut. That's nice.

"You should talk to him, Jay. It'll put him at ease if he knows it's not an uncommon circumstance."

With a lingering look, Manny turns and walks away.

"Goodnight," both Jay and Claire warily call after him, before looking at each other.

* * *

"So I have to talk to _Phil_."

Jay is sprawled out on his couch, a camera in front of him.

"I have to explain to him-Jesus, I don't know. That my little girl's got a crush on some movie hunk. Truth be told, I'm not surprised." Fondly, he recalls, "I used to call her room 'The Bonaduce Shrine'. Wall to wall, there was his face. Danny Bonaduce. Claire, she _worshiped_ that kid. Until," he says, pulled back out of the memory, "she didn't. She got over it, is what I'm saying, and that's all Phil needs to know."

* * *

Claire is wide-eyed. "Danny Bonaduce? No. That's-" Grasping for words, she scratches the back of her neck. Pulls a face. "I was a David Cassidy fan. Totally. Had pin-ups of him all over my wall. That... beautiful, feathery hair..." Suddenly, her face softens. "Oh god, I so loved Danny Bonaduce. The hair, the freckles, the-" She grows serious once again. "Tell no one."

* * *

"So anyway," Jay says, shoving his hands in his pockets, "that's it."

In front of him, Mitchell is stuffing a diaper bag full of unnecessary doo-hickies for Lily. Diapers and extra clothes and food and _whatever_. That's why kids are so sensitive these days-parents over-doing it just so some nosy neighbor doesn't get dial-happy and call up Child Protective Services.

Mitchell says, "That's... it? What does that even mean, 'that's it'?"

Jay rocks back onto his heels. "I don't know. You tell me."

With a sigh, Mitchell straightens. In his hands are back-up baby monitors.

"Let me get this straight." (Here he ignores Jay's pointed chortle, then cover up cough.) "Claire ordered movies off of Netflix. Largely featuring Colin Firth. Phil saw, so Phil got upset, so Claire came to see you thinking you'd serve as some sort of concerned, influential figure, and now you're here, pestering me." A beat. "You're right. Nothing about that makes sense."

Cam, who had breezed into the room half-way through Mitchell's break-down, stuffs Lily's favorite orange monkey into the diaper bag and says, "You know what does make sense? _Pride and Prejudice_."

Mitchell squeezes his eyes shut, face automatically tilting towards the ceiling. "Here we go."

"What?" Cam defends. "I'm only saying. Of all the variations-of which there are many-the Colin Firth version is the only one that ever grips me."

"You're gripped by _Bridget Jones' Diary_."

"I never claimed it was a balanced system."

"Ladies," Jay cuts in. Mitchell rolls his eyes. "Can we focus? How do I make this go away?"

"Just, talk to him," says Mitchell, the voice of reason and logic.

"Talk to him?"

"Yeah, Dad, you know, with words you use to comfort someone? Can you even do that?"

"I'm married to a woman who's every reaction is to over-react. What do you think?"

Mitchell summons the ability to stifle a comeback. Jay nods at the baby in the car seat, the over-stuffed diaper bag.

"What are you two up to today?"

"We're taking Lily to the Ice Capades."

A tangible awkwardness bursts into sudden existence, then lingers.

"Okay, Dad!" Mitchell says, scratching at his cheek. "Good seeing you."

Cam breezes past, calls out, "Good luck with Phil! You'll do _great_."

"Thanks," Jay says, as he leaves.

* * *

"Oh, heavens no," Cam says to the cameras. Mitchell is beside him, smirking. "Jay's going to flounder like a fish out of water. I mean, it's _sweet_ that he's offering-"

"Wellllll," Mitchell says, wearing his _let's rethink the validity of that statement-_face. "Sweet?"

Cam repeats his sentiment: "It's _sweet_ that he's going to give helping out a try."

"You know what's it really like, more than that? Hilarious. Or, out-of-character."

There's a beat.

"It's sweet," Cam reaffirms.

Mitchell-just barely-shakes his head, once.

* * *

Haley's the one who answers when Jay knocks.

"_Hey_," he says with a big smile, wiping his feet back and forth on their welcome mat.

"DAD!" she shouts, "GRANDPA'S HERE."

She spins and jogs back upstairs, leaving Jay to let himself in.

He mutters, "Hello to you, too."

When Phil comes around the corner, he's already grinning. "Heyyyyyyy," he greets, reaching out for a hug that quickly turns uncomfortable, because, well. A break-down:

Jay steps one way, then the other, and ends up going into the thing chest-first, which if you ask him is not how a man should hug another man. There's this three second hold, where-crap, groins are touching. It's like a meet-and-greet down there. Phil finishes it off with two back pats, then releases Jay.

"So," Phil says, still grinning, hands on his hips, "what brings you around to Casa De Dunphy?"

"Can we-?"

Jay gestures at the living room. The couch.

"Yes! Awesome idea. Let's sit."

While Phil leaps with an athletic prowess over the back of the couch and slides his way down the cushions, Jay, hesitating only a fraction (good god, what has he got himself into?), walks around the thing comfortably, normally. He's not just going to _rush_ into this.

"Ohhhhh," realizes Phil, and he's got his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped in front of his face. Like a kid in front of a Christmas tree. "This is serious," he's smiling. "I can tell. What is it? No, don't tell me. Melanoma. No! Why am I going so dark?"

Jay, settled next to Phil, though with a full fluffy pillow's worth of space between them, swipes an open hand out in front of him. "Cool it, it's nothing like that."

Phil lets out a deep breath and falls against the cushions. "Oh, thank god, could you imagine? Melanoma," he says. "Scary stuff. I saw," he's straightening again, squinty-eyed, "this episode of Grey's Anatomy once-totally love that show. It's the critic's darling. And they were dealing with cancer-I don't know, it was some kind of strange brain tumor that involved ghost hallucinations-"

Jay stares up at the ceiling and breathes out one of them slow, patience-teaching breaths of air that help him _not_ bodily harm his son-in-law. "Not talking TV either, pal," he says, quick, with a slap on the back that's probably a little harder than it should be. Phil startles forward, but recovers quick, scooting back onto the couch with a laugh.

"We're talking movies," Jay says, and Phil brightens.

"Oh! Awesome, okay. Hit me: what're you streaming? _Avatar_? _The Blind Side_? Oh, you know what? You know what just occurred to me? You need to see-" Phil leaps to his feet and heads for a book shelf full of DVDs, "the movie _Precious_. Based on the book by Sapphire. No, trust me. _Life. Changing_."

"Sit down," Jay tells him, frustrated, "c'mon, sit back down."

Phil stalls halfway between the couch and the bookshelf. "But..."

"It's about Claire," says Jay. Pointedly.

* * *

"She told her dad!" Phil tells the cameras. "Oh my god, _she went and told her dad_. I should've known." Less outraged, he says, "She said she was going out for a jog. I thought," he muses out loud, "that it was _so weird_ she brought the car..."

* * *

"Look," says Jay, hugely uncomfortable and visibly so, "it's normal for a-_woman_-to have a-_liking_-to certain actors. Point is, it's a thing. No big deal. Happens with everyone."

Phil narrows his eyes and _hmmmms_. "Point taken." Then: "Who's Gloria's actor?"

That makes Jay balk. "What? I don't know what you're talking about." And he's genuinely clueless about the whole thing, because, Gloria? Favorite actor? No. No way. She hates actors. Thinks they're too fake, too... actor-y.

* * *

"Oh, please," Gloria waves a hand at the camera. "I just let Jay think that because he wants to." With a smirk, she confides, "Leon_aaar_do DiC_ah_prio. All the time, ever since I was young." She nods, satisfied. "Him. He is my favorite."

* * *

"I don't know," Jay admits, "maybe Gloria does have some _thing_ for some handsome Hollywood hunk, but it's just-" he waves his hand in the air, "a thing, it means nothing." He clasps Phil's shoulder and gives it a good, paternal squeeze. "You can't let it bother you."

"Huh," Phil thinks it over. "I guess you're right."

Jay starts to stand, stretching out the aches in his legs. "Of course I am."

Just as Phil gets to his feet, Claire comes through the front door. And when she sees Jay and Phil together, she stops, super nonchalantly. Then points at them with the keys still in her hand.

"Oh," she says, like it's a surprising sight before her. "So, you two are... talking. Oh."

Jay breezes past her with a kiss to the back of the head. "Very slick," he says, mouth near her ear.

She smiles and says, "Thanks, Dad," watching him go.

After he's gone, Phil comes around the couch, the long way. He's smiling too. "You got your dad to come talk to me." It's not even an accusation. It's just straight-up statement.

"What?" Claire says, mouth wide open, eyes big. "Why would you think-? I so did not. I didn't! Okay, I did. Phil," she says, moving in to clutch at his shirt, "I only did it because I wanted you to be okay with this. Because, I swear, they're just movies. Some of them aren't even that good!"

"It's okay," he says, softly.

She falters. That? Was unexpected. Honestly, she sort of figured he'd put up a bigger fight than that, but okay. Whatever. That's cool.

"Hey," he says, low and warm, and it's like those early months when they first started dating all over again. She feels it in her stomach. "I get it. You don't have to explain anything."

Phil smooths back Clarie's hair, smiling, but fondly, and kisses her on the forehead.

When they break apart, Phil does so with a triumphant grin, sauntering out towards the garage. Claire stays rooted in place, awestruck and, honestly? Feeling like she could go bone her husband.

Then:

"Mooooo-_ooooo_-oom!" comes a cry from upstairs, and there's a door slam. Pictures on the wall rattle. "Alex, the little dork, keeps trying to listen in on my PRIVATE phone calls!"

As Haley comes bounding down the stairs, Alex hangs her head over the banister. "Yeah, _right_, why would I want to listen to your boring phone calls, all you talk about is Dylan."

Hayley whirls around and shouts, "Because, newsflash, he's my BOYFRIEND! When _you_ get one, like you even _could_, then you'd know how it feels to have your _PRIVACY_-" back to Claire this time, and more shrill, "invaded by your geek kid sister! Can you do something about this?"

"Oh, _I'm_ the geek?" shoots back Alex, who, seriously? Stomping down the stairs.

"Guys," Claire sighs, clutching at her forehead. There's a headache. Swear to god, there's a migraine forming.

"_You're_ the one with a Jacob Black poster hanging over your bed!" Alex yells.

"At least I _have_ a boy over my bed," Haley defends. "You just have that stupid symbol chart."

Alex gapes. "Oh my god, it's called _the Periodic Table_. How are we even related?"

Claire settles in for a long, stressful night.

With no Colin Firth.

* * *

"I guess it's okay," Phil murmurs to her later, sitting up in bed. She's got a book in her lap. He's flipping through some gadget magazine.

Claire doesn't look up, in the middle of a really good sentence, but asks back, "What's okay?"

Phil lets out a breath, and leans against the headboard. "You don't think I'm handsome any more."

Claire laughs, the book forgotten. "What? Phil. Seriously, that's stupid."

He lets his jaw drop. "C'mon! You said so."

"Uhhh, I _didn't_. Why would I even say that? Of course you're handsome. Is this about the chiseled-jaw thing, because, Phil, I swear to you, I'm going to _file_ down your jaw line if you don't stop whining about it-"

Phil levels it with her: "Maury. Povich."

Claire reacts by not reacting. "O-_kay_. What's Maury Povich have to do with anything?"

"You said he wasn't good-looking! Specifically. Those were your words. I wrote them down."

"So? Who cares." She shrugs and picks back up on her reading, because if this is him trying to start a fight about the world's most unimportant thing, she wants no part in it.

Phil's jaw drops for a second time, but this time with a scoff. "So?" he parrots. "So, hello." With his hand, he outlines the shape of his face. Pret-_ty_ emphatically.

Claire doesn't get it. "What?"

"Maury Povich, in the flesh! You said like ten years ago that me and him were practically face-twins."

And then it hits Claire. Right there, right in that moment. And she laughs.

"_Geraldo Rivera_," she reminds him. "I said you looked like Geraldo Rivera!"

That's when it all comes rushing back to Phil, too. Of course. Geraldo Rivera! Because they were talking about his awesome mustache...

Claire lets the book fall to her lap, and slips her hands around Phil's arm, leaning in close. "Who," she breathes out against him, "I find to be," a pause for effect, "_insanely_ attractive."

Phil swallows. "Is that so?"

Claire clicks off the bedside lamp and nods, "Uh-huh."

Things get pretty sexy after that.


End file.
